wax birthday cake

on the occasion of my 16th birthday
 

formaldehyde hastens,
fingers through my porous angel food channels,
irrigates and stiffens me like white-matter.
 

I am nothing if not a foundation of chalk,
whipped velveteen by all the air contained in a year,
set on porcelain like a frosting of kunstwerk and confined to a glasswork bell.
 

I nod whitely at my reflection and momentarily relent a chiffon sigh.


soon a waxwork craniotomy will set off an awkwardness of song.
 

what a shame if my flesh, embroidered in paraffin and ice,
became unfastened and embraced the finality of molar?
 

consumed in another ritual of life and a casualty of its own immaterial and sweetness.